


Subliminal

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, M/M, Sentient Atlantis, Synesthesia, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-23
Updated: 2008-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The City is a conduit, and John can't help but listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subliminal

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first SGA story. I'm finally biting the bullet and archiving _everything._

He leans one palm against the wall, and the City talks to him, a wordless murmur that John has learned to stop straining to understand. It's a constant, subliminal rumble, the mental voices of all the City's new inhabitants, their human minds captured only imperfectly by the Ancients' technology, and their emotions twisted somehow into colors and tastes and strange sounds.

Even so, the hum still has meaning to John—it's pretty fucking eerie, but he can tell what his people, as a whole, are feeling, whether it's the anticipation of arriving trade supplies, or anxiety over some crazy newfound piece of Ancient technology that's blown up in their faces.

But there is one voice-emotion-thread distinct enough from the hundreds for John to recognize. Even though he can't hear words, he knows what, generally, Rodney is feeling. If John focuses, he knows.

He hasn't told McKay. _No way_. Rodney is already paranoid enough. He doesn't need to know John can put his hand on any wall, tip an ear, and pick up on his current emotions.

Right now, as usual, McKay is jerking off.

:::

The first time John realizes he can actually hear what Rodney in particular is feeling, he's so weirded out he barely touches the walls for a week. Which makes it really damned hard to do much of anything.

It isn't that John doesn't _want_ to know; it's just that eavesdropping is plain creepy, and also he has a sneaking suspicion he knows just why Atlantis has decided to let him hone in on that particular wavelength.

After a while, though, he gets too curious, and telling himself it's as good a way as any to keep tabs on one of the most important people on the crew—strike that, _the_ most important person to the expedition's survival, really—he listens in again. Just enough to figure out that Rodney has had way too little sleep in contrast to way _way_ too much coffee. So John cruises by the lab and nudges Rodney out the door and to bed, telling him they have a mission the next day; which, if Rodney hadn't been out on his feet with exhaustion, he would have known was a big old lie.

John pats himself on the back and just smirks at Rodney the next morning when he comes stomping into mess, looking well rested but seriously pissed off.

So, John has pretty much resigned himself to being a little bit of a babysitter, which makes it all that much freakier when the next time he listens in, he catches McKay in the middle of a jerk-off session.

John drops his hand like the wall is on _fire_.

:::

Rodney finds a machine that creates monofilament a couple of molecules wide. "It's like Ringworld! Larry Niven would cream his pants!"

Rodney's satisfaction tastes like fresh plums.

:::

The next day John stumbles onto another jerking session. Ratio-wise, it's starting to make John wonder how often Rodney chokes the chicken. This time John lets himself listen in a little while longer because, as he told himself over and over, it's _normal_ , everybody jerks off, it's just like having to listen in on Rodney pissing, for chrissake, nothing embarrassing about it. And besides, John's picking up something just a little bit off in the feeling coming through. Rodney tastes sad, or, not sad but his thread looks despairing orange somehow, even though what he's doing feels really good.

 _Really_ good; too good, actually, and John drops his hand when his cock starts getting interested.

The despair doesn't make sense, because, yeah, sure, there are a limited number of other people on the expedition, which really hinks the chances of getting laid, but Rodney's a good-looking guy and a certified fucking genius to boot, and John's seen the looks he gets sometimes, especially from some of the female botanists, probably because he doesn't work that closely with them and so he hasn't bent their ears back as often.

So there's no reason for that despairing orange he picked up from Rodney, and John feels a little weird, like he wishes there were something he could do about it, except there isn't.

There just isn't.

:::

Rodney claps his hands together. "Ah, paradise!" Spinning around, he shoots John a panicked look. "Can we go home now?"

John glances over Rodney's shoulder and sees they've gated into the middle of what looks like a giant citrus orchard, with tangerine trees and— _whoa_ —look at the size of those purple lemony things.

"And, what, we tell Dr. Weir 'Sorry, we were afraid of being attacked by fruit?'"

Rodney huffs and mutters, "You don't know—sentient fruit—not unheard-of— _Pegasus_ Galaxy, after all _—_ "

"C'mon, Dr. Who."

They fan out, Teyla sticking close behind Rodney, who's still grumbling as he pulls out his scanner. He jabs his finger, coincidentally toward a break in the tree line, and John has to work hard not to laugh as he follows.

But he checks his vest for his epi-pen, just in case.

The Veckorians, oddly enough, do not ascribe any particular religious significance to the Ancient ruins near their village, nor do they seem inclined to shoot them on sight or ask them to engage in any weird rituals before offering them lunch and an opportunity to trade for cloth and grain. McKay says no to lunch and goes off to scan the ruins, which means John has to grab some bread rolls and go with him, thereby missing out on what looks like a really excellent purple lemon tart planned for dessert.

"The readings aren't very—hey, that's weird," Rodney says. His scanner goes _bleep-dee-bleep_ and Rodney taps it a couple of times. "Wow. Okay, make that _wow._ " He goes scrambling between some tall pillars and before John has a chance to say _Slow down, McKay,_ there's this yell, "Shit!" and a scrabble and a echoing _splat_ , and John curses and goes running after him, careful to watch his feet.

Good thing, too—Rodney appears to have fallen into a deep hole.

"McKay! Damn it—"

"Fuck! Fuck! I've broken—okay, maybe not broken, but it's sprained, or maybe strained, at the very least—"

Relieved, John lets go of his P90 and swings his pack around. "Just hang on." Tapping his radio, he says, "Ford, get over here to the ruins. Timmy's fallen down the well."

A snort of laughter precedes Ford's response. " _Roger that, Major._ "

"Ha-ha-ha, funny," Rodney's voice echoes up. "Remind me to beat you to death in your sleep tonight."

"I'll be sure to put it in my calendar."

"Hang on a sec—this is interesting. I've got a light source down here—"

"Don't you move, Rodney—" John starts, but he can already hear the idiot _moving_.

"And the reading is off the scale. Amazing—"

" _Fuck_ ," John mutters, and wraps his climbing rope around one of the pillars. "I'm coming down. You moron."

John rappels down into the pit. It's only about twenty feet down, and the bottom is soft and wet. It smells sandy and dank, bringing back a memory so sharply that for a second John has to freeze and shove it back in the box before he can move on. Some things don't bear remembering. Some things you just leave behind in the sand.

"Rodney, you bastard," John mutters, then figures, hey, Rodney _should_ be hearing this. "When I catch up with you I'll give you more than a muscle strain," John yells.

"Oh, please," Rodney echoes back.

The ceiling is claustrophobically low. The beam of John's P90 lights up a corner in the passageway, and as he turns it he finds Rodney right in front of him, hunched over something buried in the sand.

"I think it's too big to move, but it's still emitting a power signature. I'm just not sure of its purpose and I can't reach the input jack."

John aims his beam at the side of the tunnel. The smell is getting to him—sand and clay and wet—and every time Rodney grunts and shifts, a little trickle of dirt crawls down the wall.

"Okay, I think I've got it," Rodney says, just as John is opening his mouth to yell, " _Wait—_ " but he doesn't get the chance, because there's a massive rumble and the machine hiccoughs and then _grinds_ , and John grabs the neck of Rodney's vest and yanks him backward just as everything starts to go FUBAR, the ceiling raining heavily down on their heads.

John taps his radio while he moves. "Ford, get ready to haul our asses up. We're getting out of here."

"Wait! Wait, it could be just a momentary—" Rodney flails his arms, and another huge clump of sandy dirt slams down on them.

"Shut up!" John says, pulling and scrambling back toward the way they came in, because no way is this happening again, not on his watch, not to _Rodney_. The dirt is in his mouth and it's hard to breathe with the dust, but he's not letting up. He's completely freaked, and Rodney isn't helping with his protests that he's "— _sure it will stabilize,"_ and _"Ow, you're hurting my armpits."  
_  
John finally gets them back to the place where they started, and his rope is still there— _Thank God_ —and even though the rumbling has stopped, the edges of the pit are still cascading sand. He wraps the end of the rope around Rodney's waist and ties it off.

"Pull him up, Ford," John says into the radio. His voice sounds strange giving the order.

 _"Copy that,"_ Ford responds, and then Rodney squeaks and grabs the rope, his feet kicking at the air as Ford hauls him upward.

And then John is just waiting. Rodney's getting out, is the thing; stupid moron, stupid _idiot_ doesn't recognize a death trap when it's staring him in the face. John could kill him. If _Pegasus_ doesn't do it first.

A small rock thumps John on the head, and he backs away from the shower of dirt sprinkling down. Then the rope is dangling in front of his nose again, and he grabs it and clips it and gives the go-ahead tug.

He rises up, helping as best he can by walking his feet against the wall of the pit. Before he knows it he's got both hands on the edge, and someone grabs him as he wriggles over and then onto his back, his feet still dangling into the hole.

Ford is staring down at him, wide-eyed.

"Thanks, Ford," John says. He turns and spits a couple of times, trying to get rid of the grit, but the taste is still thick in his mouth. Ford hands him some water, and that really helps.

Now that they're out, the quick pounding of his heart starts to slow, and he begins to think he over-reacted a little, because looking over he can see the smooth surface of the grass growing over the tunnel, and it's only sunken in a few feet, not a total collapse.

But he still turns toward Rodney, who's sitting on the ground beside him and kvetching about his bruises and muscle strains.

"Don't do that again," John says, trying to sound sarcastic, but it comes out pathetically weak, like begging, and Rodney gives him a strange look.

Teyla comes trotting up, concern creasing her forehead.

"Are you all right, Major?"

"Yeah. Five by five."

She wrinkles her nose at the phrase. "That is good."

"Hey, what about me?" Rodney gets up and then points down at John. "You could've let me at least look at the damned thing for another second, figure out what it's capable of." He speaks directly to Teyla, "I got it primed but couldn't execute anything before this big Morlock here dragged me out."

"Jesus, McKay, I couldn't let you—you have no idea what it's like to—" John sees them all staring at him, and replays the sound of his voice, thin and panicky, and just shuts up. But, no—Rodney has no fucking clue what it's like to be buried alive, even unintentionally, and he's not going to find out.

"Here." That's Rodney, looking a little penitent now as he hands John what looks like a washcloth. Jesus, the things Rodney thinks are vital to an off-world mission really boggle John's mind sometimes. But he wets it and uses it to clean off his face and hands.

"How did the trading go?" he asks Teyla, and is glad to find his voice sounds normal again.

"Quite well, Major. I believe the goods will be of great benefit to all of us—well, except for Dr. McKay."

"Citrus," Rodney says, like most people would say 'man-eating tiger.'

"That's great news. So, let's get back and tie this thing up."

"But what about the—" Rodney waves an arm toward the hole in the ground, and John just gives him his very best hairy eyeball.

Rodney appears unfazed. "Seriously, Sheppard, we can't—"

"We'll send some archaeologists. They're good at digging, right?"

"Yeah, and then it will be _their_ brilliant discovery." But Rodney shuts up, maybe seeing something in John's face, something John is afraid says plainly, _You scared the shit out of me and I can't lose you like that, okay? I can't lose you._

John turns back toward the village before his face says anything else it's really not supposed to.

:::

Rodney's tray plunks down next to John's in the mess hall. John can tell it's Rodney's because of the triple dessert.

"So..." Rodney says.

"So." John replies evenly, stabbing his fork at the haunch of something that could be a tiny gazelle. It tastes almost exactly like rabbit. With hooves. And it goes good with the almost-rice.

"So, what don't I know? You said I didn't know what it's like to....something."

John risks a glance. Rodney looks constipated.

"And I'll bet you just hate that idea."

"Of course."

John shrugs. "You can't know everything." And Rodney doesn't. He doesn't, for example, know that last night when he was jerking off, John was right there with him, lying on his bed with one hand pressed to the wall and the other stroking his own cock. He came right after Rodney, the deep blue pleasure spiking into John's nuts and making him come harder than he could remember.

"Well, of course I can't know _everything_ ," Rodney says, sounding like he doesn't believe it. "That doesn't mean I can't try. So, what don't I know? And don't give me that 'Gee, whiz' look because I'm so not falling for that."

John sighs. "Give me your pudding."

"What?" Rodney's arm encircles his tray protectively. "No way. This is the last of the pudding. I had to clothesline Kavanagh to get these."

"You want to know? Then hand over a pudding cup." It's a dirty trick. And it works, because Rodney chews his lip for a second, his arm tightening around his tray, but then he takes one of his puddings—the vanilla, of course—and starts to hand it to John.

John folds his arms. "The butterscotch."

"Oh, you suck," Rodney says under his breath. But then he does it, incredibly—drops the butterscotch cup on John's tray with a thud.

Too bad John has lost his appetite.

Rodney raises his eyebrows, and John scratches his forehead, hiding behind his hand.

"You don't know what it's like to be buried alive," he finally answers. "It's not...fun."

There's a moment of silence, but John's afraid to look up.

"And you do." Rodney says it a little uncertainly. "You really do, don't you? When? How?"

John doesn't want to do this—he really doesn't. But he lets himself say it, detaching the facts from the rest of it. "They kept me there, underground, just this little dug out room with a tunnel going up to the top. They kept me there in between questioning me, and the last time, they meant to bury me there."

"Jesus, Sheppard—"

But he can't let Rodney interrupt him or he'll never get it said. "So, when they were done asking me questions I wouldn't answer, they pulled out their shovels and started filling it in on top of me. They were laughing when they did it."

He finally looks up, and Rodney is staring at him with this horrified expression, so John knows exactly why he's never mentioned this to anyone outside his debriefing.

"But how did you—?"

John shrugs and opens his pudding. The smell of fake butterscotch drifts up. "The camp was attacked by our guys before they were done, and I managed to dig my way out." He eats his pudding. It tastes wrong, salty almost, but it helps with the ache in his throat.

"You're right, I didn't know. You're stupid, you know that?"

"What? What for?"

Rodney picks up the vanilla cup and shakes it meaningfully. "If you don't know, I don't need to explain it."

John doesn't get it, but it doesn't matter, because Ford comes in just then and steals Rodney's other pudding, and by the time Ford finishes shaking the almost-rice out of his hair, John's already gone.

:::

He doesn't listen in that night, or the next day. He needs to back off, get out. It's like he's still trapped in that tunnel with Rodney, and he can't fucking breathe.

:::

" _He's going to be okay."_

 __John comes to lying on the deck of the puddlejumper, and at first he can still _feel_ it, the bug on his neck feeding on him, still making those disgusting sucking noises that sounded way too much like sex; that made him want to throw up, and all he could think of was _get it off me. God, get it off me_. He'd rather be fucking dead than have it suck the life out of him and not be able to do anything but lie there and let it happen.

So, he'd told Ford to shock him with the paddles, ordered Ford to _kill_ him, really, and that's why when he first wakes up, he's really, really confused.

He should be dead.

His hand is on the deck beside him, palm down, and just about the time he realizes the bug is gone, history—there's nothing hurting him, sucking at him—he feels this multicolored surge of emotion coming through Atlantis, from nearby, and he opens his eyes.

They're all around him—Carson, looking incredibly relieved and putting out this sharp tangerine that also tastes a little like he's even more glad he doesn't have John's death to feel guilty about. Weir is there, with nothing but relief and green pride coming from her aimed toward the team, and weirdly, toward John. As if he's done something great by not dying. Teyla's there too, feeling joyful and putting out honey gratitude.

But the strongest of all is Rodney. Rodney is— _Jesus_ , Rodney is practically pulsating with—

John takes a deep breath and says, "Hi there, folks."

"Major Sheppard," Carson pipes, "don't move, laddie, we're bringing in a gurney."

"Not moving." Christ, John's throat is raw—he vaguely remembers screaming, and hopes he didn't embarrass himself too much. Or worse, maybe someone recorded it over the comm. That would be just wonderful.

There's movement by the doorway, and John lifts his head to see Rodney there, shifting back and forth as if he wants to go, but needs to stay, and the expression on his face is a dead match—orange despair, a yearning that tastes like blood, like sex—for everything John has ever felt from him while jerking off. It's all right there, completely exposed on Rodney's face.

John heart thumps painfully, and Carson's hand twitches on his chest, moving the stethoscope.

"Easy, Major. You're going to be okay."

John tilts his head back and lets the world reel away.

:::

The team sees him to the infirmary and then leaves him alone. And he's glad, because it's good to be alive, but it's also a little terrifying. Every time he turns his head the bandage on his neck pulls on his skin. It feels like the bug again. He can still hear the weird chirping sound it made as it fed on him.

The nurse comes in to check on him, and he has to force himself not to twitch when she touches his wrist. His skin feels wrong—itchy, and too tight. After she leaves, he's tempted to jump ship and go find a balcony somewhere, but he'd have to disconnect all the leads connected to his chest, and they'd catch him for sure. Maybe he can get Rodney to help trick the monitors—

"Hi, there."

It's like John invoked him or something, because here's Rodney, carrying something small that he offers up as he steps closer to John's bed.

"You said we should bring you food." Rodney's smile is half twisted down. He's holding a vanilla pudding cup. It's dented on the side, like it might still be the one he did battle for with Ford. Like he's been saving it that long.

"Thanks." John's voice is still hoarse, so he doesn't say anything more. He doesn't know what to say. This is Rodney, except it isn't, because John _knows_ now. He knows, and he doesn't have a clue what's going to happen next.

Except, whatever it is, he's sure to screw it up.

"Aren't you going to eat it?" Rodney's eyebrows lift hopefully and he pokes John's hand with a spoon. "Because you realize this is a tremendous sacrifice on my part."

John tries but can't dig up a come back. "Yeah, okay. Thanks."

The pudding feels good going down, eases his sore throat. Rodney has pulled up a chair and starts talking fast—about what a close thing it was, about the trick they used to overcome their inertia and blow the puddlejumper through the gate. His hands move wildly while he describes what happened, and John is a little mesmerized watching. And thinking. Rodney's hands and arms are strong from hauling all that equipment around. He has calluses on his palms and fingertips, and pink burn scars from soldering accidents.

The hands stop moving, and John raises his eyes to see Rodney has stopped talking and is staring down at him. He doesn't need to touch the wall to know what Rodney is feeling right now. It's all right there, just as naked as in the puddlejumper.

"I can't believe you told Ford to kill you." Rodney's voice is almost casual, but his body is too stiff.

"Well, it's not like he hasn't thought about it before, I'm sure. For all I know it's his number one fantasy."

But Rodney doesn't laugh.

"C'mon," John says, a little desperate. "I had what to look forward to? Twelve more minutes and then the joys of explosive decompression?"

Except he would have preferred that. A good clean death. He'd always thought he'd be guaranteed that, and not have to lie there helpless and in pain with that _thing_ sucking on him—

"Hey." Rodney's hand touches his wrist, and John jerks a little, but reaches out before Rodney can pull back. Rodney looks down, his face reflecting his surprise at John's firm grasp on his hand.

"Sheppard?" Rodney sounds breathless.

John nods and squeezes hard. Somehow, while his brain was still lagging behind, his body had decided what to do.

"I can feel it, you know," John hears himself whispering. And he hadn't meant to tell Rodney this, not ever, but if anything is going to happen, he has to come clean. "Atlantis tells me what you're feeling, sometimes. Right through the walls. No matter where you are."

Rodney's eyes go even wider. "No way. What, everyone?"

"No. Not everyone. Just you. Because...I think I needed to know."

"That's incredible." Rodney ducks his head, his lips curving.

"You're not...creeped out?"

"What? No. Unless you can read my mind. You can't read my mind, can you?" Rodney starts babbling nervously. "Because I can't be held responsible for every stray thought jumping through my head, you know. I have a very big brain—"

"The size of a small planet—"

"—yeah, and so you can understand if sometimes it—wait. You can't, right?"

"No, I can't read your mind. And thank you very much for that completely terrifying idea."

Rodney's lips twitch again, and then he's smiling outright, which makes John smile back at him.

So, they're good. Maybe. He squeezes a little on Rodney's hand. "You okay with this?"

"With what? Oh! With this, you mean? With us? There is an us, right?" He sounds so goddamned hopeful.

John doesn't know how to respond. So far the only us-ness he's felt is when he's jerking off along with Rodney, which is a pretty sad thing.

"Because yeah, yeah, I've thought about it, and then when you—when I think— _Jesus_ , John, you made Ford kill you." Rodney's face twists, and John can't stand it, he knows how it tastes, bruised and cold and like steel in his mouth, and he'd much rather be tasting Rodney, so he tugs on Rodney's hand and like magic Rodney leans over him and kisses him.

 _Oh, this is so much better._ Rodney's mouth is so warm and sweet, his tongue is pushy and teasing, and the cold shakiness in John's guts just melts.

When Rodney pulls back he's smiling wider than John's ever seen him. "Yeah, I'm _okay_ with this," he says, and there's only the tiniest bit of sarcasm in there, but anyway, John likes it.

:::

"Seriously, we have to run some tests." Rodney is pacing back and forth in mad scientist mode wearing only his boxers, which should be funny but is weirdly hot.

"Not gonna happen."

"But if we could isolate the subprogram we could use this for—well, I don't know what we would use it for, but it's always good to have new technology—"

"You just want to eavesdrop on people." John stretches under the sheet, feeling interested again even though Rodney brought him off with his hands just half an hour ago. God, he loves those hands.

"Of course. Big surprise." Rodney turns and mimes, _duh_ , but then his eyes drop down to where John is stroking himself under the sheet, and his eyelids dip.

 _Blue_ , John thinks, and turns over, pulling the sheet down until the cool air hits his ass, and sure enough, Rodney makes a strangled sound and gets on top of him, his warm skin covering John's back.

"You really want me to—?"

"Yeah." _  
_  
Rodney knows what he's doing apparently, because even though John's pretty sure it's going to hurt a little—he hasn't been fucked since the weekend before he started boot camp—Rodney's fingers are certain, slicking him up inside and making him tremble while Rodney says ridiculous stuff in his ear that John swears to himself he won't tease him about later. And then Rodney's cock is sliding in, sweet and easy, in and out, over and over, so goddamned good. Christ, why did he ever give this up? Rodney pushes his legs further apart, thrusting deeper, and John deliberately reaches up and puts a palm on the wall and— _blue-music-sky-warm—_ comes before he's ready, before he thought he was even close, because, _God_ , he can feel Rodney, taste Rodney's pleasure in thrusting in and feeling John spasming around him— _green-good-flying—_ and John makes embarrassing noises as he clenches down again.

Then Rodney starts panting in his ear, thrusting harder, faster, and whispering something on a moan. John doesn't need to hear it, because he feels it all over, in every cell— _soft-red-need-love-red_ and comes again when Rodney does, trembling along with him while their bodies tighten in pleasure.

And when he can breathe again he figures maybe he should let Rodney run those tests after all, because _this_ , what they are together—

Rodney needs to feel this.

 

 _End._


End file.
